


Bloody Luck

by joonfired



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Dom/sub Undertones, Gen, Heavy Angst, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neck Kissing, Retractable Fangs, neck kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonfired/pseuds/joonfired
Summary: sooner or later my love for monster/human was bound to make an appearance
Relationships: Baby Yoda & Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 150





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Touch and Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789363) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 
  * Inspired by [Family and Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758992) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> sooner or later my love for monster/human was bound to make an appearance

Cold is what he remembers best.

The freezing dark that enveloped him as he woke up bruised and  _ hungry _ , so hungry it gnawed at his insides, his teeth aching to bite and tear and feed. The snowy mountain he painted red with his uncontrolled savagery, chasing those who had been sent as unsuspecting meals for the young monster he had become.

He remembers the biting chill of Before, his father shoving him into the deep snow with just a single word.

Survive.

And so Corin does what he must to survive.

He starves patiently until they release him when he’s needed to claw and rend and destroy. He indulges too much too rarely, walking back to his cell, belly extended and sloshing from feeding. Bloodstains mark his trail before they’re scrubbed away by the black cleaning droids.

He stands in the imposing black armor of the Deathtroopers, surrounded by monsters just like him that the Empire controls with the temptation of bloody feasts and unchecked violence upon those who resist them. They guard the Emperor in shifts, though their hunched leader looks more dead than they who truly are.

He does what he is told until one day they ask too much.

The rebels have broken them, but the Empire is not completely shattered. The remnants chase and batter at their victorious opponents, commanded by the quietly terrifying Moff Gideon.

Corin faces a trembling family, young and old gathered in a bomb-cracked courtyard to face the Moff’s unmerciful calm. They stare up at his dark armor, at the helmet that hides his sun-starved skin and hungry eyes.

“Take care of them,” the Moff orders him, a lone Deathtrooper standing dark amidst the swarming white soldiers.

It’s nearing the blur of evening dusk, so Corin removes his helmet with just the slightest pain of the burning touch of UV rays on his sensitive skin. When the family sees what he is, they grip each other tighter and the younger ones wail. Their cries echo in his mind, fracturing into his own cries in that cold darkness as the monsters came at him, ready to change him . . . just like his father had ordered.

Corin stares at them, at their war-thin bodies and the starved-high cheekbones of the older ones. They’re not soldiers, they’re just people. Pawns deemed expendable — just like him.

The hunger pulls his gaze to the frightened pulses underneath dirty skin. He smells their blood, sweeter than most victims because of their youth, and the taste sours on his tongue.

He’s never been told to eat children before.

“What are you waiting for, biter?” the Moff asks, low and dangerous.

Moff Gidoen isn’t like Corin, but he still fears the living, breathing man. But he hates him more.

“I won’t do it,” he says.

He drops his helmet as he whirls on the squadron behind him, hunger targeted at the Moff. But Gideon steps back with a smirk and starts walking towards his waiting ship as the stormtroopers rush Corin.

He meets their attack with a grin, fangs dropping down as his lips pull back.

When he leaves the village, dark armor shed for a less-noticeable white armor that is still blood-smudged along the collar, there is no one left to chase after him.

<>

He goes dormant for what feels like forever but is probably just a few days.

And then  _ something _ stumbles into the cave he crawled into just before morning, tired from fighting and feeding and fleeing. No, two somethings, paired with a sharp scent that a drowsy instinct warns him against investigating.

A foot kicks his leg where he lies prone against the cave all, his body corpse-like in his dormant state.

He lunges up, ripping away his helmet, teeth bared as he attacks a silver-armored figure.

They topple to the ground and Corin goes instinctively for the throat, fangs dropping and hunger waking. But when his nose touches the silver helmet, it  _ burns _ .

He shrieks in pain, the momentary surprise giving the body beneath him enough time to surge up and toss him away. Flames spit out of a vambrace, causing Corin to scuttle back from this confusing person.

“What are you doing here?” a modulated voice demands. “ _ Monster _ .”

“I ran,” he rasps around pain and fangs and hunger.

“Your kind doesn’t run from the Empire,” the man replies, flame-thrower arm still pointed at him.

“Well, I did,” Corin shoots back, fangs retracting as his composure returns.

“Why?”

“I may be a monster,” he snarls, “but I’m not one who hurts children.”

Right as he says the word ‘ _ children _ ’, a small head pokes out from a bundle slung across the man’s chest. Large eyes blink innocently at Corin from a green-skinned face, little clawed hands poking up under its wee chin.

“Get back in there, womp rat,” it’s told in a softer tone by the man, who tucks the child into the warmth of its makeshift sling.

But one look was enough for Corin to recognize the child as the one Moff Gideon is looking for. Which makes this man the Mandalorian with currently the biggest target on his back in the galaxy.

“Let me help you,” he asks, falling to his knees. “Please. Do you think I had a choice in becoming what I am? Because I didn’t.”

The silence after his plea is far, far too long, but Corin is well-practiced in waiting.

“Why?” the Mandalorian finally repeats, heavier than the last time.

Corin raises his eyes to his, not bothering to hide the monster he is. “Because I’m asking you instead of killing you. Because I’ve come from the Empire and I know how they work. Because I can protect you and the little one from the monsters they’re going to send after you.”

“And what if you’re one of those monsters?”

He snorts. “Yes, I waited in this abandoned cave for you to visit.”

The Mandalorian nods then and steps back, lowering his arm.

<>

Two days later they leave the icy planet in the Mandalorian’s ship.

Corin knows he’s not trusted, but the silver-armored figure doesn’t cage him. He just keeps the child close and locks himself in the cockpit when he wants to sleep.

And when they land on a hot planet, the searing heat of the suns seeping into Corin’s borrowed armor and making his skin itch, when a ragtag group of bounty hunters track them down, the Mandalorian nods in their direction and says, “Time to stick to your promise.”

“It’s in the middle of a two-sun day,” Corin protests.

“Kriff,” the Mandalorian growls, and they resort to losing their trackers in a maze of alleys.

But when the suns go down and the cold creeps in, Corin removes his armor and goes hunting.

He comes back just before dawn with a full belly, wiping blood from the corners of his mouth. The Mandalorian is waiting for him at the entrance of his ship, propped lazily against the wall with one hand on his blaster and the other supporting the sleeping child.

“They’re gone,” Corin tells him.

<>

One night not too long after that, Corin is pacing in the hold of the ship when he hears the cockpit door creak open.

To normal ears, the sound may have been indiscernible from the hum of the ship’s engines. But he has memorized the sound of the ship so the small difference followed by something small dropping to the floor has him prowling to the ladder.

The child stares up at him, swaddled in that too-big brown sack of clothing.

“Hello there,” Corin says softly, crouching so he won’t loom over it in a possibly terrifying way.

The child doesn’t reply, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even move. It just stares at him.

Until it slowly starts inching away, eyes still fixed on him, taking tiny, wobbling steps . . . until it’s close enough to a corner to turn and scamper away with a chortle.

“That . . . you . . .” Corin straightens with a huff, hands propped on his hips.

Maybe the cockpit wasn’t locked to keep him out but to keep this child  _ in _ .

The Mandalorian clatters down the ladder a minute later, helmet swiveling accusingly in Corin’s direction. But he just shrugs and points in the direction the child took, which the Mandalorian takes. The child is obviously captured a few moments later with a bang and giggle, its little body wriggling in the Mandalorian’s hands when the man reappears.

“He does that,” the Mandalorian says, before disappearing back into the cockpit.

<>

The next time the child escapes, he doesn’t run around. He waddles to where Corin is sitting against a wall, picking at his nails.

“Hello again, little one,” Corin greets him.

The child continues towards him until it plunks down next to him, lifting a tiny hand to look at it in a mirror of how he is inspecting his nails. This brings a smile to Corin’s face, an expression he hasn’t used in a while.

“They do look a bit dirty,” he tells the child.

When the Mandalorian peers down, the child waves at him and then clambers onto Corin’s lap to settle with a small sigh of contentment. It then looks up at the gaze hidden behind that silver helmet almost . . . daring?

It’s enough to make Corin chuckle, to which the child responds with a burbling laugh of its own.

<>

The Mandalorian doesn’t lock the cockpit anymore.

<>

Day by day, the three of them fall into a routine of familiarity.

The Mandalorian pilots and cares for the child, Corin paces and, if they’ve touched down on a planet, wanders at night, listening and guarding. He isn’t as well-fed as the hunger would prefer, but meals come at a steadier schedule than when he wore the black armor.

And he has conversations, people not suspecting him when he walks into a cantina as shady as everyone else hunched over their food or squabbling over various gambling tables. People talk to him like he’s just another traveler, not a monster, not an Empire-collared murderer.

Corin likes it. It feels . . . good.

<>

Marauders always seemed to come in the day time when Corin had to use just his speed and his strength to fight. But this time . . . this time they come at night.

He leaps out of the ship and dodges the red laser bolts to drag a body to the ground. His fangs drop and slash across a thick-skinned throat, viscous blood filling his mouth. He spits it out as he rises with a snarl to rush another body, this time felling it with a punch to the chest, his fist breaking through skin and bone and dragging back through torn organs as the body falls limp.

Beside him, the Mandalorian fights just as fiercely. Bones snap and skin melts, every blaster shot meeting a mark and ending it.

And then Corin sees more shapes gliding in the shadows near the ship, creeping up the gaping ramp.

“The child!” the Mandalorian yells at him. “They’re going for the child!”

Corin sprints through the night to slam a body into the side of the ship with a hollow bang and crunch. These bodies smell more edible, more vulnerable, and he swallows the blood that fills his mouth before moving into the ship.

He doesn’t see the child, but he sees the attackers. They do not smell like anything which means they are all monsters like him.

They rush him with quiet snarls, faster than what he’s been used to fighting. He hits the hold floor with a strangled snarl, raising an arm for flashing fangs to tear into instead of his vulnerable throat. It will take a lot to kill him, but then there are a lot of monsters here right now.

They knew, they  _ knew _ he was with the Mandalorian and the child.

“Traitor,” one growls against his ear before he yanks his head to the side to avoid snapping teeth.

Corin doesn’t have the energy to reply. He’s fueled by rage and worry and  _ don’t hurt the child _ . He rolls and breaks away, surging to his feet to rip out the throat of one with clawed fingers before leaping onto another shadow and tackling it to the floor.

He scrambles for something to pierce the monster that writhes and snarls beneath him, fangs gleaming long and white in the scattered dim. His fingers find something that feels close enough to a weapon and he punctures the monsters head with it.

“Monster, are you all right?”

Corin scoffs as he gets up, gore clinging to his skin. Of course the Mandalorian wouldn’t know his name, just like he doesn’t know his.

“I’m fine,” he calls.

He turns to look for the kid as the Mandalorian jogs into the hold, silver armor spattered with battle. He hears the man’s frantic breaths, sees the affection in how anxious he searches for the child. How every inch of his body is tight with worry and  _ don’t hurt the child _ .

“Hey there, womp rat,” the Mandalorian says, bending down to open a small hatch in the side of the hold.

The child blinks at them from its makeshift room, complete with a dim lamp and a nestlike pile of blankets and toys and what Corin thinks must be half-chewed food. It responds with a coo as the Mandalorian picks it up, patting the top of its head in relief.

A shadow stirs in the ceiling above.

“Watch out!” Corin shouts, already moving forward.

He tackles the monster hard, shoving it out of the ship with him. It is stronger than the others, energized by the fresh blood he smells on its mouth. What unlucky body fed this strength Corin falls back under, pinned to the ground by a heavy knee?

“CT-113,” the monster hisses, a long-fingered hand holding his twisting head in place, lifting his chin harshly to bare his throat. “Goodbye.”

Fangs puncture his skin, biting deep. Corin shrieks in pain before the toxins set in, loosening his muscles and seeping the fight out of him and he wonders how, even though he also is a monster, the bite is dangerous for him.

He’ll never know now, life taken from him swallow after greedy swallow from the leering monster suckling at his ravaged throat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I lied, there's going to be a few more chapters before the horny
> 
> also content warnings for blood stuff and a very, very slight reference of marital rape  
> don't hate me okay this got a bit dark all on its own

He wakes up  _ starving _ .

It’s a hunger that he can’t control, writhing like an animal inside him. He growls into the blurry dark around him, fangs out and nose full with the scent of hot, pulsing blood.

“Take it,” a voice murmurs.

Warm skin pushes against his mouth and Corin doesn’t think, he just bites.

Wet red gushes thick over his tongue, coating his teeth. He bites deeper, barely hearing the grunt of pain from whoever he’s feeding on, drinking in long, pulling gulps. He feeds until enough clarity returns to make him pull back with a sharp inhalation of regret, scrubbing at his chin, blinking at the armored figure crouching next to him.

“Feeling better?” the Mandalorian asks, wrapping a hand around his torn wrist that Corin had just been latched onto.

“Yes,” he breathes, still caught in the haze of feeding to say anything else.

He stares at the silver helmet of the man in front of him, staring at his warped reflection, red staining his lower face. He feels . . . disgust.

No, more than that— _ horror _ .

“It’s all right,” the Mandalorian says softly even as blood seeps past the grip of his fingers on his torn arm, plinking on to the floor. The same blood that Corin licks off his teeth as his fangs retract, the hunger sated just enough for him to control.

“I need to wash,” Corin mutters, dragging himself to his feet. He brushes past the Mandalorian, the scent of his thick, heady blood fogging his mind. “I need—”

He’s stopped by a touch on his shoulder: light and then withdrawn when he turns.

“I . . .” The Mandalorian stands awkwardly in front of him, still bleeding. “Thank you.”

Corin blinks. “For what?”

That earns a dry laugh. “What do you think? For saving us. Protecting the kid.”

It’s been . . .  _ never _ since Corin’s been thanked. He doesn’t know how to act, what to say, how to look. So he nods, and then heads for the washroom.

When the door locks behind him with a hiss, he sinks to the floor. Hunger aches through him but that’s nothing he’s never felt before. What he doesn’t know is the confusion roiling through him, that quiet  _ thank you _ hitting against his mind.

Why? He did nothing special. The only difference was that he’d chosen to attack, to defend someone he wanted to protect instead of fighting on orders alone. He doesn’t deserve special treatment because of that.

He didn’t deserve the Mandalorian’s blood.

Corin lurches up, feeling sick. He bends over the washbin, fighting the urge to dry-heave, the taste of fresh, willingly-given blood too-sweet in his mouth. He tries to rinse the taste away with water, dousing his head, scrubbing every fleck of the Mandalorian’s blood from his skin.

When he finally emerges from the washroom, hair still dripping long and wet into his eyes, the Mandalorian is still waiting for him.

“They’re going to send more,” he tells the Mandalorian.

“I figured as much.”

“You’re not worried?” Corin asks. “They’re coming for me. You should have left me.”

“They were coming for me, for the kid, long before we picked you up,” the man shrugs, beskar clanking quietly. “Being hunted is nothing new to me.”

“I should go,” Corin says. “I . . . if I get too hungry, if I lose control . . .”

“Stop it,” the Mandalorian interjects.

But Corin pushes forward, needing to face the truths of his existence. “I could kill you. The child. I can’t do that.”

“What, you want me to toss you out the waste hatch right now?” The Mandalorian scoffs. “We’re in-transit.”

Corin notices that he doesn’t call him monster anymore.

“Corin,” he offers. And when the silver helmet tips in a questioning manner, he clarifies, “My name is Corin.”

“I don’t think running away from me is going to solve any of our problems,” the Mandalorian says. “Corin.”

He doesn’t agree, but it’s clear that the Mandalorian isn’t going to drop him on the next planet they find. And while it takes a lot to kill him, the black of space is one of the quickest ways for Corin to truly die, which is something he’s not keen on experiencing.

Again.

<>

The Mandalorian doesn’t act differently with his wounded arm, but Corin still smells the fresh blood seeping into the air and it bothers him. He doesn’t want to keep smelling it, keep tasting it, even though he hates himself for sometimes opening his mouth to catch the faintest taste.

<>

They finally touch down on a jungled planet where the air is thick and coats Corin’s skin like a damp blanket, humidity rolling down his back in a mockery of sweat he doesn’t have.

He wonders how much the Mandalorian must be suffering as they trek through the tangled trees, the overhead branches forming a canopy of protection against the sunlight. He opens his mouth to try and catch a taste of things, but ends up sputtering in disgust from the swampy environment . . . and the bitter crunch of something small and wriggling.

The child chases after everything small and wriggling, its brown robe muddied from the many puddles it leaps into chasing after the prey it gorges itself on.

“You’re going to poison yourself,” Corin mutters, keeping the child from pouncing on a brightly-hued amphibian.

That earns a chuckle from the Mandalorian as he looks over his shoulder at Corin holding the complaining child.

Something warm and strange tells Corin that the man is smiling behind his helmet.

<>

That night, Corin is restless and starving.

He’s gone longer before, but he needs sustenance after being nearly drained in the attack two days ago. He wonders if the Mandalorian would feed him willingly again, but Corin isn’t going to ask.

He can’t.

And so he slips into the chirping, shifting forest.

Corin isn’t sure what leads him to the village, but several hours later he trudges out of the forest and into a clearing with a rough circular shape. He slinks through the shadows to the cluster of straw-roofed huts in the center of the clearing . . . but not without narrowly avoiding a fall into the multiple ponds that ring the village.

He doesn’t want to do this, but it’s them or the Mandalorian. Maybe he’ll get lucky and come across a villain in this sleeping place, someone he doesn’t have to feel guilty about hurting, of taking blood from.

Maybe.

A bit-off sound trickles to his ears, followed by a thump, then another.

Maybe he has found luck.

Corin follows the sounds to a hut at the edge of the village, closer to the forest than the rest, with just a singular pond next to it. There is another cry trailing into a whimper.

“Quiet,” a voice snaps and the whimper ends abruptly.

Corin enters the hut like a shadow, keeping close to the wall. He doesn’t take long to look at the scene before he pounces: a man, a woman beneath him, the scent of blood and fear swirling together in the dark room.

He growls and drags the man away and out of the hut, his arm wrapped around the man’s throat to keep him quiet. In the forest he bites quick and deep, the man struggling for just a few moments before the toxins turn off his responses and he lies still like the corpse he soon becomes.

Wiping blood from his mouth, Corin goes back to the village, to the hut with the sagging doorway he pulled the man from. The woman is still there, sitting against the wall, knees hugged to her chest. She stiffens at his approach, but he doesn’t scent much fear on her.

He’s not much of a monster to her, he realizes.

“It wasn’t so bad,” she whispers. “But it kept happening. He never listened to me.”

“He’s gone,” Corin tells her and wonders if she can smell the blood on his breath.

“I know,” she says. “Thank you.”

Why are so many people thanking him for being himself? For doing what monsters do best?

He runs away again from the confusing thoughts, back to the camp where the Mandalorian stirs at his approach, but doesn’t ask questions.

<>

The next day, they enter the village.

Corin is confident in the darkness hiding his features from last night, but he still keeps his goggles on and cowl low, arms around the child as the Mandalorian meets with the huddle of villagers that gathered to greet them.

“People are missing,” the Mandalorian tells him later as they walk to a hut that has apparently been assigned to them. “I said we could help.”

“I know where one of them is,” Corin admits evenly. “But I don’t think he’s one they’ll want to find.”

“Me either,” the Mandalorian agrees. “Because the missing people are much, much younger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dunnnnnn MYSTERY
> 
> also yes this is a different version of Sorgan


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corin and the Mandalorian go on a hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyy I'm back writing in this fandom again!! short chapter to ease back in the story but expect updates (hopefully) regular on this and my other Mandorin works

This isolated village, they discover, is under mysterious attack. During the tale of stolen younglings and missing livestock, the Mandalorian glances at Corin as if to ask if this could be the work of his kind of monster.

Corin twitches his head in a negative but the situation makes him feel . . . uneasy.

He knows the Mandalorian is doing what he does best: hunting. He knows they need information to carry out the task. He knows he shouldn’t ask for anything . . .

But it still sits heavy in his mind, pressing and unwanted.

He hates it.

<>

The child stays with the woman Corin remembers from last night and he liked the way she smiled at the child’s antics when it wobbled around her doorstep after bugs.

“Make sure it doesn’t eat any of those,” the Mandalorian had said.

“All children eat bugs,” the woman then replied, “but I’ll keep it away from the harmful ones.”

After the child is situated, all that remains is to wait for the sun to sink and send this side of the planet into darkness.

They go into the forest, him and the Mandalorian. It isn’t yet sunset, but the air is starting to cool. Corin settles down, his back against a tree trunk.

“What are you doing?” the Mandalorian asks.

“Waiting.”

“They said the youngling’s trail ended a mile away. We should wait there.”

“This is an isolated place,” Corin says, tipping his head up to the armored man towering over him. “So why is it being targeted? They said they’ve heard no ships, seen nothing flying over so obviously whoever is doing this had to put in a great deal of effort.”

“I know it smells like a trap,” the Mandalorian starts.

“No, it smells worse.” Corin gets to his feet. “Things like me aren’t born—we’re made. And until the Empire’s collapse, we were a very prized, effective weapon. An  _ expensive _ weapon.”

“Do you suspect anyone from the village—”

But Corin is already shaking his head. “No.”

“What about the man from last night?”

“Not that kind of monster.”

The Mandalorian sighs heavily, shifting in annoyance. “What’s your point, Corin?”

It’s strange, but he gets an odd sort of thrill in hearing his name spoken by the Mandalorian. Something about that voice, the way it’s said . . . and the fact that Corin hasn’t been known by his first name for a long, long time.

“No one is going to worry about an isolated village from a backwater planet,” he continues. “No one is going to bother if a few kids go missing from them. No one’s cared for decades; no one’s cared about hundreds of places like this.”

It is difficult to explain why he’d offered to hunt for the missing younglings so quickly without dredging up the horrors of his past. Many knew the Imperial rule to be harsh . . . but also so many were ignorant of just how terrible it had been.

However, the Mandalorian seems to gather something from his expression or his tone, because he gives a curt nod.

“You think they’re collecting soldiers again,” he says. “And with the Empire’s fall, they’ll need more than simple troopers to take back what they’ve lost.”

“They’ll need monsters,” Corin says soberly.

“But you left,” the Mandalorian says quietly.

Corin laughs sharply. “Yeah, I left. Me. Just one. There’s still at least a hundred more who don’t want to live, don’t care to leave, who don’t even  _ think _ they could leave! You know how the hunger is . . .”

He trails off, remembering once more the taste of the Mandalorian’s blood on his tongue.

“There could be quite a fight waiting for us,” the Mandalorian says a few long, awkward moments later.

“There probably will,” Corin replies.

“Sun’s going down.”

Corin glances at the dimming, golden rays that shine mutely through his goggles. They’re not dim enough for him to move freely, but they will be soon.

<>

They jog through the forest in the direction the villagers had directed—Corin light on his feet and the Mandalorian heavier but both unwavering. He’s tried tasting the air but gets nothing but small bugs that crunch bitterly between his teeth and the thick, murky swamp taste that permeates throughout the entire planet.

Until he smells blood—fresh and lots of it.

Corin stops and the Mandalorian slows his pace until they stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough that the presence of that damned beskar prickles uncomfortably over Corin’s skin.

“Blood,” he murmurs to him.

“Shit,” is the reply.

Part of Corin wants to correct him foolishly and point out that, no, he doesn’t smell shit, just blood . . . but it's been a while since he’s had a flippant thought like that. He wonders what it means. He wonders if it’s good or bad.

They move carefully now, Corin leading the way by his nose and then later with his ears. Because, over the hum and chirps and rustles of the night life, he catches a steady, pulsing sound—like machinery or a massive heartbeat.

He hopes it’s machinery.

“I got a read on my sensors,” the Mandalorian murmurs.

“How many?”

“Hard to tell. It’s still a blur and we’re still too far away.”

Corin closes his eyes to think and listen and scent. “I could scout—”

“—no.”

His eyes snap open. “Why not?”

“I think you should be the surprise,” the Mandalorian says. There’s something in his modulated voice, a mysterious tone that Corin isn’t sure means respect or glee. “Someone like me, that’s normal. But if this is who we think they are, they’re not going to be so ready for one of their own weapons to turn on them.”

“They were ready for me last time,” he points out.

“Were failures on that level regularly sent out en masse to the rest?”

This time, Corin knows the Mandalorian’s tone had been . . . humorous. Excited. And he feels that thrill echoed faint inside him as his lips pull back, his fangs revealed by his grin.

“No,” he says. “No, they weren’t.”

<>

When the signal is given for Corin to appear—a plume of fire shot up into the night from the Mandalorian’s vambrace—he sprints through the woods . . . and into an abandoned camp.

The Mandalorian stands in the middle and tilts his helmet as Corin eases back from his readiness for attack. His fangs retract and he frowns as he looks around the vine-draped huts and scattered supply bins. But there’s still the pulse of machinery thrumming in his ears. There’s still the blood, the scent surrounding them— _ oh _ .

Corin snarls and the Mandalorian gets out a, “What—” before dark shapes drop from the trees around them.

The Mandalorian goes down in a tangle of hisses and shrieks as he manages to light one on fire before the rest pin him to the ground, securing his struggling form with steel cables.

Corin jumps back as others rush at him, fangs bared and beskar vibroblades in their gloved hands.

This was a trap . . . for him.

“Run!” the Mandalorian yells. “The kid!”

Corin doesn’t think—he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I haven't read Hidden & Revealed yet so no spoilers ^^


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corin comes to a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really being a make-it-up-as-I-go type of writer for this story . . . does it show?? xD

He sprints away, faster than the ones chasing him . . . who turn back quickly.

Corin doesn’t like that; doesn’t like how easily they give up. He doesn’t like that they were waiting for him and the Mandalorian, that they  _ knew _ where they were.

He dashes through the forest, his skin prickling and stinging as plants and branches reach out again and again for him. He feels the edge of weariness approaching, only thing able to turn that away. But he won’t ask anyone for blood—not now.

And the only one who might freely give it is the one he left behind.

When Corin crashes into the village and the villagers stare at him with dawning horror, he realizes his mistake.

He stands still, no need to catch breath he doesn’t have nor need. He knows from the haze around their restless bodies that his eyes are red and monstrous; he feels the press of fangs against his lip.

And then the woman steps forward, the child propped on her hip. She stares at him, the only one unafraid.

“You need to run,” he tells them. That doesn’t go over well, a buzz of conversation and glares thrown in his direction. But he continues, no time for their distrust. “There’s more coming—for you and yours. They took . . .  _ him _ .”

Again, he doesn’t know the Mandalorian’s name and that fact sits too-heavy on his chest.

“. . .  _ them _ ?” the woman asks, her voice trembling. “Is that what our lost children are now? Monsters?”

That word slams hard into Corin and he wants to snarl at it, claw it away. He is a monster, he knows it, but perhaps he’s also  _ more _ than just a monster. He wants to be more.

“You’ll all be monsters if you don’t leave!” he snaps, his fangs dropping in his anger.

That sends the villagers scurrying to their huts except for a few, the woman and child included, left still staring at him.

“What are you going to do?” a man asks, his voice cutting like a weapon at Corin.

What  _ is  _ he going to do?

The hesitation gives confidence to the man, who steps forward to spit at Corin’s feet. “I bet you led them here. I bet you’re going to tell them where we are and help them cut us down, one by one.”

Corin laughs, stepping forward as well and spreading his arms wide. “So kill me now.”

“Stop it,” the woman interjects, shoving herself between the two of them. “Leave it be, Willis.”

“It’s a  _ monster _ just like those coming for us,” the man barks.

“Yes, I am!” Corin bellow, his voice making the others stop and look back in his direction. “But I’m the only one willing to help you, aren’t I?”

A moment of tense silence passes before Corin steps back.

“Where will we go then?” the man challenges, throwing a hand wide in a gesture at their surroundings. “There’s nothing but swamp and woods for thousands of clicks.”

Corin closes his eyes for a moment, thinking how far away the Mandalorian’s ship is from the village . . . even though he knows it’s too far for them to make before they’re attacked. He also wonders if there’s a trap waiting there or if the ship is still waiting where they left it on this empty, tangled planet.

“I have an idea,” he finally says, opening his eyes and addressing the village.

<>

They barely listen to him, only stepping in line when the woman—she tells him her name is Ula—and a few others step up in support of Corin.

He rounds them up with their hastily-gathered supplies and jogs with them into the forest, the dark of night wrapping tighter around them under the shroud of tree branches. The child is still with Ula, but not before reaching to Corin for a brief embrace and babble of unknown words. They move with quiet murmurs of fear and complaint, but at least they’re moving.

The night drags on—long and suffocating.

Corin wonders when dawn might come, if it ever comes. He wonders if that would be enough to give them a break while he and his kind would be impaired by the sunlight. He wonders if any of this matters.

He wonders if the Mandalorian is still alive.

And right when he’s in the midst of his thoughts, relying on his instincts to keep watch . . . they strike.

A scream is cut short and the scent of blood rises thick into the darkness.

“Run!” Corin shouts, pushing the closest villager ahead of him while he whirls on the dark shapes that leap from the trees.

He punches and tears and bites, but he’s just one and there’s so, so many.

The villagers are running, a brave few stopping behind to face the monsters they must have only heard of in stories, but they’re not strong enough. Their courage only lasts a few moments before it’s snuffed out, leaving only corpses behind.

Until suddenly, there’s a  _ force _ —

—and the dark shapes are pinned to the ground with a shriek.

Corin falls under the same invisible ripple, his flesh feeling like it might peel away from his bones. He screams under the pain, curling up, feeling cold, true darkness creeping in from the corners of his senses.

He falls.

_ He’s back on the mountain, nine years old and trembling with cold and a one-worded command: Survive. _

_ How can he survive this? His father put out here to die in the snow and the storm and the . . . monsters. _

_ Dark shapes slink towards him across the white, faces hollow and mouths gaping. He screams and tries to run but he is too cold, too little, too slow. _

_ They pounce and he falls, teeth sinking deep into his throat— _

_ —until he rises, cold but stronger and not helpless anymore. _

_ He sees and feels things warm and good for the HUNGER that suddenly rises sharp and cutting in his belly. And this time he is the dark shape that pounces and bites and silences screams. _

_ He is the monster. _

<>

Corin lifts himself from cold memories. He lifts himself against the pain and the force keeping him down, every nerve in his body writhing from agony.

He stands upright, looking at where the child is held in Ula’s arms—eyes closed and hands raised. The little one is what’s holding the monsters at bay; the little one is protecting the villagers.

“Go,” he croaks at the woman, falling to his knees once more.

Corin is a monster, too. He isn’t worth any risk.

He isn’t worth anything.

He falls again and this time he does not rise for a long, long time.

<>

He wakes up again to the searing pain of daylight which sends him scuttling into the shadows, burnt and aching and  _ starving _ . He watches as most of the dark shapes don’t rise . . . and the ones that do stay in the shadows, looking at their decimation.

Corin doesn’t linger but slinks away, keeping to the shadows as best he can.

When he reaches the edge of the clearing where the ship should be, it’s gone. And so are the villagers, which brings something like a smile to his face. He actually succeeded in saving them—no, the little one saved them.

But there is still one other who needs saving.

Corin pushes his hunger away, pushes everything away except the memory of the Mandalorian telling him to  _ run _ .

And so he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was this perhaps the most confusing chapter ever?? yes it was. Is it a bridge to more one-one-one interactions & budding heat between Corin and Din?? YES IT IS.


End file.
